


Sing Me Awake

by REVVIII



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Post-Episode 6, Yennefer plays matchmaker, because Geralt is Dumb, just a little bit though, no one actually dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22905082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/REVVIII/pseuds/REVVIII
Summary: It’s been four years after Geralt essentially told Jaskier to fuck off on the mountain, and it still hurts when Jaskier hears people ask about “his Witcher.” Every time, he swallows down the pain and smiles and tells them that Geralt isn’t his and never was. He’s had to have said it about a million times by now, and he’s perfected the cadence of his voice, practiced the evenness of his words until he can’t hear the shake in them anymore. He hid his heartbreak because a heartbroken bard earned no coin, and he needed coin for food and room and enough alcohol to drown out the pain.Then he stumbles across Geralt in the woods—and he’s dying.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 950





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title and some other bits of inspiration taken from Not Yet/Love Run (Reprise) by Joey’s band The Amazing Devil (which is truly amazing!! Go check them out)

Jaskier had a wolf, once. He’d had a Witcher. He’d had the most notorious and famous one of all, the noblest and greatest to have ever walked the continent. He’d always known that Geralt of Rivia had never really been _his_ , of course, never been one for him or anyone else to claim, but it had been nice before anyway, to hear people ask about the bard’s Witcher instead of the Butcher of Blaviken and smile because okay, maybe it wasn’t _strictly_ true because a wild wolf could never be truly tamed, but at least Geralt was a wolf now—a beautiful, noble creature, instead of a butcher. And Geralt had never complained; not really, anyway. He’d just growl and roll his eyes at the light jest but he never snapped, never bothered to correct anyone. 

But that was in the past now. Four years ago, to be precise, and somehow these goddamn _idiots_ still hadn’t gotten it through their thick skulls that Geralt wasn’t Jaskier’s Witcher anymore and he never had been. It had been an illusion; a dream. The story of a lovesick fool pining after a man who had never wanted him around in the first place. 

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

Spit at him, no less. 

Jaskier swallowed hard, shook his head sharply, blinked the sting of tears from his eyes. “He’s not mine,” he said, for what felt like the millionth time. “Never was. And I don’t sing that song anymore.” 

A million times, and he’d perfected the cadence of his voice, practiced the evenness of his words until he couldn’t hear the shake in them anymore. He hid his heartbreak because a heartbroken bard earned no coin, and he needed coin for food and room and enough alcohol to drown out the pain. 

“Why not?” the young man in front of him asked, smile wide and bright, and Jaskier wasn’t old but he was suddenly reminded of the day he first met Geralt all those years ago, so young then, still barely more than a child, thinking he had the world ahead of him. 

(Geralt had been that world. And then he’d lost him.) 

“Look, we’ll sing along with you,” the young man continued eagerly. “We know all the words, right lads? _Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty_ …” 

“No,” Jaskier said, perhaps a bit more harshly than absolutely necessary, and pushed past the group of people who had joined in the tune. “I’m tired, and I just want to sleep.” 

“But he’s here,” the young man said, still smiling, and Jaskier felt his world shudder to a halt. 

“He’s…what?” 

“He’s here,” the young man said, and when Jaskier turned to face him his face was bright and shining. “Your Witcher. Geralt of Rivia. Staying at this inn. He’s off killing some ghouls right now but he’ll be back in the morning—he deserves more coin than what’ll have been promised him. You should sing your song, get the people to chip in.” 

For a moment, Jaskier couldn’t breathe. Geralt was here—Geralt was _here!_ Four years of nothing and suddenly they were at the same inn and Jaskier could see him again— 

But no. 

He couldn’t. 

Geralt wouldn’t want to see him. 

He swallowed hard. The best thing to do would be to leave immediately, to get out of town and as far away from Geralt as he could so the Witcher wouldn’t have to worry about running into him. Ideally, he’d figure out which direction Geralt had come from and where he was headed so he could make sure he went the opposite way, but the Witcher had been a man of few words when Jaskier had known him and there was no reason to believe he would be any different now, so he thought that second part may be a bit unlikely. The most he could do was get out of here as soon as possible, pick a direction, and hope it wasn’t the same direction Geralt wanted to go. 

At the same time, it was late, and he was exhausted, and there hadn’t been another inn for miles in any direction. If Geralt was going to be out dealing with ghouls all night, perhaps he could spend the night here, get at least a few hours of rest, and then leave early in the morning before Geralt returned. Geralt never had to know he’d been here. 

Fortunately, there was still a room open. 

Unfortunately, the innkeeper informed him that it was right next to Geralt’s. 

Fuck. 

Then again, he was exhausted and needed sleep, and he was going to be gone long before Geralt got back. 

Nothing could go wrong. 

Things did, actually, go very wrong. 

It started when Jaskier fell asleep, which wasn’t unusual now, actually. He dreamed of Geralt, as he often did. Geralt and him on the mountain, Geralt screaming at him, Geralt telling him he wasn’t wanted. 

He was used to that now, though. 

Things got worse when Jaskier woke up, upon which he immediately realized that it was long past the break of dawn and he had _vastly_ overslept. 

“Shit!” he hissed, immediately out of bed and packing his belongings. “Shit, shit, _shit_!” There was still a chance that he could miss Geralt; he could sneak downstairs and past the dining room and be gone before anyone knew he’d left. But he’d have to be fast, make sure no one was looking his way and just hightail it out of town and never look back and pray that Geralt hadn’t seen him. 

There was no one in the hall when he peeked his head out from behind the door; there was no one on the stairs either. 

Good. All clear. 

But at the bottom of the steps he heard something that made his blood run cold. 

“He’s not back yet,” someone was saying, and the voice sounded troubled. Jaskier peered around the corner; most of the inn’s occupants were gathered in the dining room around breakfast, but the atmosphere was subdued. 

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” the young man from the previous night said. “Ghouls are tricky; it’s probably just taking him a bit longer than normal.” 

_Yeah, he’ll be back, you’ll see_ , Jaskier would have said, had it been four years ago. But he was worried; Geralt had gone after ghouls before, and they never seemed to give him any more trouble than any other monster. The fact that he wasn’t back by now was worrying. 

“Eh, Witchers die all the time,” another man said. “They don’t live forever, lad. They’re not immortal.” 

“Yeah, he’s probably gotten himself bitten,” a woman agreed. 

“I told you he wouldn’t make it,” the first man growled. “We shouldn’t have called him here.” 

“Well, we had to do _something_ , didn’t we?” the young man demanded. “And who’s more qualified than Geralt of Rivia?” 

“Even Geralt of Rivia isn’t immortal,” the woman said. “Henry’s right; Witchers die all the time. He wouldn’t be the first.” 

Jaskier’s heart was racing. He sank down to the ground, hugging his knees to himself, feeling his breath coming in sharp pants. Geralt was—he couldn’t be— 

He was fine. Geralt was fine. It was just a lot of ghouls, Jaskier told himself. Just a bunch of ghouls that were taking a bit longer than normal to kill. And then Geralt would be covered in mud and dirt and, since he definitely would’ve started giving more attention to personal hygiene in the years since Jaskier had seen him, he would’ve stopped by a stream to bathe. That was all. 

So there really was no reason for him to sit there and wait, really. Absolutely no reason. There was no good justification for him to wait for Geralt to get back and make sure that he was alive and okay before slipping quietly out of sight. None at all. 

He sat there for two hours. 

By noon, Geralt still wasn’t back. 

Jaskier had to go after him. He knew Geralt; he would go out, get the job done, be back by late morning at the latest. In all his years of traveling with him, unless Geralt had told him that it would take more than a day, he had never been late unless something had gone wrong. And killing ghouls was never supposed to take more than a day. 

“If he’s not back by now, it’s hopeless,” the woman said, when Jaskier asked where the ghouls were. “One bite kills.” 

“One bite kills a man, not a Witcher,” Jaskier said. 

The woman looked at him for a long time. “Head north into the forest,” she said finally. “Follow the stream, then when you see the scratch marks on the trees, follow those. We put them there in the daytime to mark ghoul territory. They’ll take you to your Witcher.” 

“Thank you,” Jaskier said. 

“Make sure you get out of there by sunset,” the woman said. She didn’t comment on the shake in his voice. 

He followed the directions she’d given him; it wasn’t as far as he’d expected, and his heart did something funny in his chest when he saw a familiar red chestnut mare by the stream a few dozen meters ahead. 

“Roach,” he said, and the mare flicked her ears. She snorted as he approached cautiously, flicking her ears again and reaching forward with her head to sniff him. “Hey,” he said quietly, and dared to stroke her nose. “Remember me? Been a while, hasn’t it?” 

The mare snorted, pawed once at the ground, nudged him. 

“Where’s your Witcher, eh, Roach?” Jaskier asked. He looked around; another few meters ahead, there was a tree with bark peeling in strips from a spot on one of its sides. 

_Follow the scratch marks on the trees_ . 

He swallowed. “He’s…he’s in there, past those trees,” he said to Roach. “Isn’t he?” 

The mare nickered softly, nudged him again. 

Jaskier took a deep breath, patted Roach’s neck. “Alright, I’m going in. Stay here, okay? We’ll come back to you.” Because Geralt was still in there, past those trees, in the middle of ghoul territory. He wouldn’t have gone anywhere without Roach, and Roach wouldn’t have gone anywhere without him, and if ghouls only came out at night, Geralt wouldn’t have anything to fight right now. So if he wasn’t fighting, but he wasn’t leaving… 

Jaskier swallowed hard, headed for the trees. Resting, that’s all, he told himself. Just taking a bit of a break; fighting monsters was hard work, after all. 

The scratch marks got denser the further he went. His heart hammered in his chest but he forced himself to push down the fear, told himself that ghouls only came out at night and it was the middle of the day right now, told himself that he was safe and, more importantly, that Geralt was too. 

Because Jaskier still loved him. Jaskier loved him more than anything else in the world, so he had to be alive. There was no other option. 

He stepped around a thicket of trees, all covered in scratch marks, and then— 

_There_ . 

Silvery white hair, the glint of a sword, black leather. Blood. 

Jaskier felt like his heart had stopped. 

The Witcher was on his back, sword held loosely in his right hand, and there was something very, very wrong. 

“Geralt,” he whispered. He stumbled forward, bile rising in his throat because _no_ , Geralt wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead, Jaskier couldn’t have found him after four years only for him to be dead— 

He tripped, fell forward onto his hands, retched around the panic and horror because Geralt was so _still_ , so silent and heart wrenchingly still like death already had its hands around him but that couldn’t be right, Geralt couldn’t die— 

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasped again, and he was at the Witcher’s side, fingers shaking as he felt for a pulse, panic gripping his chest and closing his throat. “Geralt, stay with me, please, you can’t die, you _can’t_ —” 

Fingers trembling, shaking too hard for him to feel anything, and he forced them to still. “Geralt, _please_ ,” he said again, and he was sobbing now, voice rising in hysterics, tears blurring his vision and splashing down onto Geralt’s chest. “Please don’t leave me again, Geralt, please, you have to live—” 

And then, finally, there it was; the faint beat of a heart. 

Jaskier sagged forward in relief. Geralt was alive. He was bitten on his thigh and on his right side under his ribs but his heart was beating and he was _alive_. 

But he desperately needed a healer. Ghoul bites might not instantly kill a Witcher, but they were still dangerous, and Geralt had been bitten twice. 

Jaskier bit his lip, hesitated, ran back to Roach. There was no way Geralt would be able to walk back to her, much less back to town, even with Jaskier’s help, and there was no way Jaskier would be able to carry the other man. The only option would be to bring the horse to him. 

Roach snorted and tossed her head when she saw him, following him without urging as he led her hurriedly back to Geralt. He wiped the wetness from his eyes, knelt by the other man again, ready to slip his arms under the shoulders and heave him up over the saddle— 

Geralt opened his eyes. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasped, reaching forward, but then he stopped, because the golden eyes were wandering and unfocused, and they didn’t know him. 

“Who are you?” Geralt mumbled, and his voice was low, his words slurred. 

Jaskier swallowed, sucked in a sharp breath against the sudden, stabbing pain in his chest. “You’re going to be okay,” he said instead of answering, and all the practice he’d put into keeping his voice from shaking when people talked about his Witcher came into good use now too, to keep the pain and the fear from his voice. “You were bitten by ghouls, but I’m going to get you to a healer, and you’re going to be fine. I promise.” 

Geralt said something incoherent, eyes fluttering shut again, and as Roach knelt by his side and Jaskier hauled the Witcher over her back he refused to think about the fact that Geralt was dying and didn’t know him. 

Jaskier rode Roach back to the town, Geralt slumped over her neck in front of him. Geralt, somehow, impossibly, grew worse as they rode, even though the ride was but a few miles; sweat ran freely down his face and his eyes wandered aimlessly under their lids, and Jaskier’s hands trembled on the reins of the horse he wasn’t entirely sure how to ride. 

“Hold on, Geralt,” he said, his voice shaking, one hand slipping from the reins onto the other man’s shoulder as if his touch would be enough to hold his life here. He was cold; Jaskier swallowed, felt his heart miss a beat, kicked Roach into a canter. 

The mare snorted, tossed her head, but complied, and a few minutes later the buildings of town were in sight. It was another few moments before he guided Roach through the winding streets back to the inn, a few moments more as he pulled her to a stop and dismounted. 

“Healer,” he gasped, as he threw open the door to the inn. “Is there a healer here?” 

The woman he’d spoken to earlier looked up. “The Witcher is alive?” 

“He’s alive, but he needs a healer. Please, it’s urgent, he’s injured—” 

The people still gathered around her murmured amongst themselves in surprise. “Two houses down the road,” the woman said. “There’s a mage there. She’ll be able to help you.” 

Jaskier was back out the door before she was done speaking. He led Roach to the house the woman had pointed out, knocked frantically on the door. It swung open not long after, and he stumbled backwards in shock, a gasp caught in his throat, because— 

“ _Yennefer_?” 

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “Jaskier.” 

Jaskier stared at her. What the hell was she doing here? He didn’t trust her, there was no way he could trust her, and she was _terrifying_ and the last time he’d seen her he’d been perfectly fine with never seeing her again, but for whatever reason here she was, and Geralt was injured and Geralt was dying and it didn’t matter who healed him as long as he lived— 

“It’s Geralt,” Jaskier choked out, and he could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. 

Yennefer’s gaze flickered behind him to Roach and the man slumped over her back; her eyes narrowed. “Ghouls got him, didn’t they? I fucking _told_ him.” 

“What—you knew he was—of course you knew.” He shouldn’t have been surprised. They loved each other, after all, of course she would have known Geralt was here and of course Geralt would have known she was here, and of course they would have seen each other. 

He resolutely did not think about the fact that Geralt had gone to find her after the mountain—find her, but not him. 

They brought Geralt inside while a stable boy ran out to tend to Roach. Jaskier didn’t exactly know if this was Yennefer’s house or just where she practiced magic, but it was spacious, and there were several empty rooms; Geralt was laid down in one of the beds, and Jaskier felt his chest clench. 

He’d always been pale, but not like this. He’d been sweaty and dirty and covered in blood before, and he’d been injured before, but _not like this_. 

“You…you can save him, right?” he asked, and his voice was very small. 

“Yes,” Yennefer said. “I can save him. Wait outside.” 

Jaskier swallowed, hesitated, stepped out. 

The next hour felt like an eternity. Finally, Yennefer opened the door, and Jaskier was instantly on his feet, mouth open to ask if Geralt was alright, if he would be okay, if he would live. 

“He’s sleeping,” Yennefer said, before he could speak. “You can come in and sit with him, but don’t wake him. He needs to rest. I did what I could, but the wounds will need a few days to fully mend on their own.” 

Jaskier’s heart thumped. He stepped past her into the room, walked cautiously to the side of the bed and looked down at the Witcher. He was clean now—thanks to Yennefer’s magic, no doubt—and his shirt removed. The covers had been drawn up to his chest and his face looked peaceful now as he slept, and his cheeks weren’t quite so pale anymore. 

Jaskier let out a shuddering breath. “He’s…he’s alive,” he whispered. He backed up to the wall, slid down it to the ground. “He’s alive,” he said again, his voice shaking. “He’s alive.” 

He saw Yennefer walk towards him slowly, almost carefully, and then she sat down beside him. 

There was a long moment of silence. 

“He said you weren’t traveling with him anymore,” she said finally. 

Jaskier glanced at her, felt a clench in his gut. “I’m not,” he said. 

“What happened?” 

“Ha. Funny you ask,” Jaskier said, even though it was not funny at all, and he felt a stab of something that might have been anger at the fact that Geralt hadn’t told her. Shame? Guilt? The feeling that it didn’t matter? “He kicked me out after you broke up with him on the mountain,” he said. “You left, I tried to…I don’t know, lighten the mood or something. But he made it very clear that he wanted nothing more to do with me, and that he’d probably actually felt that way the whole time. So I left.” He frowned, clenched his jaw. “Not like I had a choice in the matter.” 

Yennefer watched him for a while. “He didn’t mean it,” she said. 

“You don’t know that.” 

She shrugged. “I know him. He can be…volatile. You know that too. It doesn’t mean that what he said was _right_ , or that you shouldn’t have been hurt by it. But he didn’t mean it. If he had…well, you know how threatening he can be when he wants to be. We both know his intentions are good, Jaskier,” she said, and there was something wistful in her voice. “I was angry that he bound us together with magic, because I could never be sure if what I felt for him was real. But in time I realized that he did it because cares. Even if perhaps he didn’t quite think through how to show it. And he cares about you too, even if he hasn’t admitted it.” 

Jaskier swallowed, refused to look at her. “He made it very clear,” he said again. 

“Yet here you are, with him. Just coincidence?” 

“Must be. I’m…I just happened to come across the inn. Heard he was staying there but that he was out hunting ghouls. He hadn’t come back the next morning so I knew…I knew something had to be wrong. And good thing I went after him, too, everyone else was saying he was dead but I couldn’t believe that, I knew that even if he didn’t want anything to do with me anymore I had to at least make sure he was okay.” He broke off, focused on quieting his breathing, which had become harsh and unsteady. In front of them, on the bed, Geralt let out a soft huff in his sleep, his hands twitching over the covers; Jaskier resisted the urge to reach out and take them in his own. 

Yennefer followed his gaze. “You love him,” she said quietly. 

Jaskier swallowed, closed his eyes. The words hurt. 

“And he broke your heart,” she continued. “But you’re still here.” 

“I’m not staying,” Jaskier said, still not opening his eyes. “I…I don’t want him to see me, since he won’t want to. I just needed to make sure he was safe, then I’ll get out of his way.” He exhaled; long, slow, shaky. “I don’t really trust you, Yennefer. You’re still…a bit terrifying. A lot terrifying, actually. But I trust that you won’t hurt him. I trust that…he’ll be safe here. With you. He doesn’t need me anymore.” 

“That’s not true,” Yennefer said, and the surprise was enough to make Jaskier open his eyes and look at her. 

“What?” 

“I’ve said it already; you mean more to him than you think,” she said. There was a small smile on her lips. “It’s over between us, you know. It ended on that mountain. We’ve become…well, we’re friends now. On good terms, at least. But nothing more than that. And it was mutual, but he was the one who brought it up.” 

Jaskier stared at her for a moment, then looked away. There were many reasons for that, of course. Guilt the most likely one. But there was no universe where Geralt decided he and Yennefer were better off going their own ways because of Jaskier. 

“Sit with him,” Yennefer said. “At least for a while. He’ll wake tomorrow; you’ve got some time.” 

“I shouldn’t,” Jaskier began. 

“You know you’ll regret it if you don’t,” Yennefer said, and there was that small smile again, and it made her look almost kind, and Jaskier thought maybe he saw why Geralt had loved her. “There’s a chair in the other room, if you don’t want to stay on the floor,” she continued, when Jaskier didn’t speak. “You can bring it in. I’ll be down the hall; I’ve got some potions to tend to.” 

Jaskier swallowed. “What…what do I owe you?” 

“Nothing,” Yennefer said, and stood. “He’s a friend. I wouldn’t have you pay for his life.” 

And then she was gone. Jaskier stared at the doorway after her for a few long moments, and then he turned his gaze back to the man on the bed. 

He did end up sitting with Geralt. For hours. For far longer than he’d anticipated. He wanted to talk to him, to spill out his heart, but then again, what would he say? Beg Geralt to stay with him? Tell him that he was afraid because he was going to grow old and die with no one to hold? Tell him that he’d be good, that Geralt could come back to him, that he promised he’d prove himself worthy if Geralt would just give him another chance? Tell him he _loved_ him? 

No, it was all ridiculous; there was nothing he could say. And Geralt was supposed to rest, in any case, so he sat there in silence as the shadows lengthened and darkened around them and watched the Witcher breathe. 

Part of his brain told him that he should go. But he couldn’t bring himself to stand up and leave, to bid the Witcher farewell. Not just yet, anyway. Not so soon after he’d found him. So the shadows lengthened to darkness, and the sun gave way to stars, and presently Yennefer brought him dinner and lit candles in the room so he could see, and she didn’t tell him to leave, and he didn’t. 

His legs grew sore from sitting, so he walked, pacing quietly around the room. His feet grew tired from walking, so he sat back down against the wall, watched the quiet of Geralt’s face, and then, without meaning to, he slipped into sleep. 

The sound of his name, barely more than a whisper, wormed its way into his thoughts. He jerked awake, heart hammering, looking around almost frantically for who had called him— 

It was Geralt. 

“Geralt! You’re awake! Shit, I—I didn’t mean for you to see me,” Jaskier stammered, feeling like his heart was quite literally in his throat. He was looking anywhere but at those beautiful golden eyes, already standing and making for the door, noting that it was morning and cursing himself for oversleeping yet again. “Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay but I’ll get out of your way now and you can pretend I was never here—” 

“It was you,” Geralt said hoarsely, sitting up slowly, and Jaskier swallowed as he saw the bandages wrapped around his waist. “You…you brought me here.” 

Jaskier swallowed again, still on edge, paused at the doorway. He nodded once, tensely. Geralt wouldn’t be angry, would he? He wouldn’t blame Jaskier for interfering with his life when he’d already made it so clear that he wasn’t wanted? 

Geralt was silent for a long time. “I couldn’t see,” he said finally, quietly. “Everything was blurry. But I thought…I thought the voice sounded familiar.” 

“I wasn’t following you,” Jaskier said quickly. “I promise, I didn’t want to get in your way, we just happened to end up at the same place and I heard you hadn’t come back from a hunt yet and I got…worried.” He trailed off, heart hammering in his throat, because Geralt had stood and was walking towards him slowly, barely a limp in his step despite the wound in his thigh. 

He wanted to flee. He _should_ flee. He should turn and run as fast as he could go until Geralt was out of sight, and then he should _keep_ running, leave the White Wolf far behind him, but he couldn’t. He stood there, frozen, as Geralt came towards him, something unreadable in those bright yellow eyes holding him like a trance, and his heart was weak and wanting, and he was helpless. 

And then Geralt came to a stop in front of him. “Jaskier,” he said, his voice soft. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered, and then he couldn’t speak anymore because suddenly Geralt’s arms were around him, pulling him into his chest, and the Witcher’s head was drooped against Jaskier’s shoulder and he was _shaking_. 

_Oh_ . 

Jaskier melted. Because this was… 

Jaskier didn’t quite know what this was. Different, perhaps. Unexpected, definitely. Maybe even a little…nice? 

But he thought perhaps defining what he felt wasn’t very important right now. Right now, Geralt was alive. He was safe, even if he was shaking. And Jaskier still didn’t know how he felt about the mountain, because he was still angry, he was still _hurt_ , and this hadn’t changed that, and Geralt being safe and whole now wasn’t quite enough to erase the still-fresh memories of panic and horror of when he’d thought that Geralt was dead, but it was…it was a start. 

So he stood there and let Geralt hold him, wrap his aching chest in warm arms, his touch somehow still familiar, and he closed his eyes in the tenderness of a Witcher’s lips on his shoulder. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this formatting really got messed up when I pasted it to AO3. Anyway I went through it and it should all be fixed now, sorry if that bothered anyone!

The last thing Geralt had expected when he woke up—which in itself was rather unexpected—was to see Jaskier asleep against the wall several feet from his bed. He couldn’t quite believe it at first, and for a few moments he thought it was the ghoul bites still affecting him, messing with his brain and making him see things that weren’t there, but then he realized that the bites didn’t really hurt anymore, and he could see everything clearly, and Jaskier really was still there. 

He didn’t quite know what had made him embrace the bard either. He thought maybe it was the fear in those bright blue eyes, wide and haunted and sad, as if he expected Geralt to hurt him, and the sudden pain shooting through his chest at the thought that the bard was scared of him. Or maybe it was just the fact that he’d taken one look at Jaskier and felt _relief_ , such overwhelming relief to see him still alive and whole after four years apart, and affection and guilt and regret and so many more things that he couldn’t quite put into words, and he wanted to hold the bard close to his chest and never let him go again. 

“Where am I?” he asked, when he finally, reluctantly, released the bard. 

Jaskier swallowed; his eyes darted briefly to the doorway, as if he were still thinking about trying to run away, but there was a slight flush to his cheeks now. “Um. Yennefer,” he said. 

Ah. He should have expected that, actually. 

Almost as if on cue, the witch appeared in the doorway. 

“You’re awake,” she said. “Good. How are you feeling?” 

“Better,” Geralt said gruffly. “Thank you.” He glanced at Jaskier. “Uh. I can walk, so we’ll be out of your way now.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Yennefer said sharply. “Your wounds are still healing, and I’d like to be able to take a look at them now and then until they’re fully closed. Besides, you don’t have to pay to stay here like you would at the inn.” 

There was no arguing with Yennefer of Vengerberg; he’d be stupid to try. (He had, in fact, tried before.) So they stayed at her place, and Geralt insisted Jaskier stay too, but Jaskier insisted on giving Geralt his space, so they compromised by staying in different rooms. 

Geralt forced himself not to think about why that was disappointing. They’d been apart for four years, after all; Jaskier was used to being on his own, and Geralt should have been too. And even when they _had_ traveled together, they’d gone their own ways more than once, and they’d had their own rooms more often than not. 

He just…wanted to make sure Jaskier was safe. Keep him in sight. That was all. 

He knew that wasn’t all. 

Jaskier kept to himself, mostly. Geralt tried to talk to him once, but the bard had turned bright red and almost literally _fled_ to his room, so he hadn’t tried again. He told himself it didn’t hurt. 

“He’s not _avoiding_ you, you dumb arse,” Yennefer sighed, when Geralt said something about it to her later that day. “Well—maybe he is, a bit. He’s scared that you hate him.” 

“I don’t hate him,” Geralt said bluntly. The opposite, in fact. He felt…well, something that he couldn’t quite put into words. Something that he’d never said to anyone before, not even Yennefer. 

“Yes, but _he_ doesn’t know that. Words…words can do a lot of harm, Geralt,” Yennefer said, and Geralt realized Jaskier must have told her what he’d said on the mountain after she left, and he felt shame flush hot under his skin. 

“Didn’t know it was that bad,” he muttered. “I thought…I thought four years later…” 

Yennefer sighed again. “You’re a fool, Geralt,” she said. “More of a fool than I thought, if you couldn’t see how important you were to him and how much he craved your validation. So talk to him. When he comes back, I mean. I think he’s at the tavern right now.” 

“The tavern,” Geralt echoed. 

“He’s been spending a lot of time there lately,” Yennefer said lightly. 

“I know,” Geralt growled. He’d _felt_ the silence in the house; the absence of light and music that accompanied Jaskier everywhere he went. He always knew when Jaskier wasn’t around, and that was more often than he liked. 

Jaskier was out for hours. Geralt ended up retreating to his room after dinner; he didn’t sleep, because he never slept before Jaskier got back from wherever he’d gone that day. He waited instead, a few small, flickering candles the only light in the room, until finally he heard the creak of the door. 

Shuffling footsteps. A sigh. The soft click of Jaskier’s bedroom door shutting behind him. 

He’d thought the tension in his chest would relax, now that Jaskier was back—and it was him; Geralt knew him by his sound, by the weight of his footfalls. And if he hadn’t been sure before, he was _definitely_ sure when he heard the soft sounds of a lute in the room next door; hesitant, melancholy notes, accompanied occasionally by a gently hummed melody. But the tension in his chest _didn’t_ relax; if anything, it tightened, urged him to do something. 

_Talk to him_ , Yennefer had said. 

Geralt swallowed. Talk to him about what? How he was glad to see him? Which was so much of an understatement that it felt like a lie. 

He snorted, hearing Yennefer’s voice in his head. _An apology would be a nice start._

An apology it would be, then. He’d never been good with words, but he’d figure it out. He had to, because he very selfishly couldn’t stand the thought of the bard being afraid of him. He sat up, wincing as the movement tugged on his still-healing wounds, then paused, tilting his head, listening. 

The singing had stopped. 

Asleep then, perhaps? 

Geralt pushed open his own door silently, walked over to the bard’s room, knocked on the door twice—no answer. He frowned, pushed the door open a crack to peer in, and blinked in surprise. 

The bard was, in a word, drunk. In a phrase, he was drunk out of his fucking mind and passed out on the ground. 

Geralt sighed, crossed the room to what was little more than a puddle of silk and tousled brown hair and lute, disentangled the lute from limp limbs and put it carefully back in its case before turning back to the bard. 

“Alright, up you get,” he huffed, lifting more so than pulling the bard to his feet and supporting him as he stumbled towards the bed. 

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open. “What—oh, hello,” he slurred, his cheeks flushed a heady pink and breath swimming with the scent of alcohol. “Thought you were…thought you’d gone to bed.” 

“Like I could sleep with you banging around in here,” Geralt grumbled, settling Jaskieronto the thin mattress and arranging his limbs so he seemed a bit more comfortable before drawing up the covers over his shoulders. 

“Ah,” Jaskier said, smacking his lips, wandering eyes already starting to drift shut again. “Sorry.” 

Geralt bit back a sigh. “How much coin did you spend on alcohol today, Jaskier?” 

A half-hearted shrug. “Dunno. Lots, probably.” 

The breath that Geralt let out was a bit louder than usual. “I don’t suppose you remember how much you’ve had, either.” 

“Nope.” Jaskier grinned drunkenly, words slurring a bit. “But don’t worry, I can hold my—” The bard broke off, eyes suddenly wide open and looking very pale. 

“Shit. Uh.” Geralt looked around, saw a bucket in the corner of the room, grabbed it and shoved it forward just in time for Jaskier to bend over the side of the bed and heave the contents of his stomach—mostly alcohol—into it. Geralt winced, hesitated, and patted the bard’s shoulder in awkward sympathy as he finished vomiting. “Better?” 

Jaskier groaned, lay back in the bed, put a slightly wobbly arm over his eyes. “’S gross.” 

Geralt  grimaced. “Yeah.” He put the bucket to the side, keeping it within easy reach in case Jaskier should need to vomit again, and blew out several of the candles to dim the light. “You should, uh, hydrate. Then get some rest.” So much for the apology tonight.

Jaskier cracked open an eye. “You got water?” 

“Uh. No, actually. But I’ll go get some—” 

Jaskier waved his hand blearily. “Nah,” he mumbled. “Forget it. ’M tired. Wanna sleep now. You can…you can go back to bed too.” 

Geralt hesitated, wavered, made up his mind. He pulled a chair over from a small desk in the far corner of the room, settling down in it beside Jaskier’s bed; the bard’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“What’re you doing?” 

“Keeping an eye on you,” Geralt huffed, a tinge of embarrassment lending a roughness to his voice. “So you don’t do something stupid like vomit in your sleep and choke on it.” 

Jaskier wrinkled his nose, but his eyes were already fluttering shut again. “’Kay. Thanks, Geralt,  ” he murmured, and drifted almost immediately into sleep. 

Geralt watched him. In the silence, he could almost hear the bard’s heartbeats, fluttering and fast with the alcohol flowing through his veins; if he reached out, he could feel the faint heat of his body. And he could see it too, in the flush of his cheeks, in the pink of his lips, in the warmth that was so human of him. And then he wanted to protect it, to keep it safe from the horrors of the world that he knew all too well, and more than that, he wanted to be _near_ it, to _know_ it like he’d known nothing else and have it know him like he’d never been known by anyone. 

He didn’t know how he could have ever let this go, and he hated that he had. 

Geralt fell asleep an hour later, drifting off with Jaskier’s flushed cheeks and red lips burning behind his eyes. It wasn’t a very comfortable sleep, given that he was sitting on a chair and had nowhere to rest his head, but it was sleep, and at first he didn’t know what had woken him. It was still a few hours before dawn, and the birds were not yet singing; it was silent. 

And then Jaskier shifted on the bed, brow furrowed as if in pain, mumbled Geralt’s name. 

Geralt’s heart thudded dully in his chest. He reached out almost instinctively, hands hovering over the bard’s body—and that was definitely anguish in his expression now, eyes squeezed shut on tears that were leaking from their corners like crystals, mouth set in a harsh line, and he rasped Geralt’s name again with a pleading that drove a dagger into Geralt’s soul. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and he dared to touch the bard now, to let his hand caress the trembling shoulder. “Jaskier, I’m here.”

Jaskier shook, his breaths short and huffed like he was crying. “Geralt,” he said again, “Geralt, please, not yet,” and yes, that was a sob, and Geralt _ached_ to hear it— 

“Jaskier,” he said, a little more firmly, and the bard jerked awake, chest heaving, eyes bright and wet, his hands trembling as they reached out for him. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, gaze fixed on him in almost desperation. 

“I’m here, Jaskier,” Geralt said, and he took the bard’s shaking hands in his own until they began to still, until the heaving breaths settled to gentle flutters and then to the more even cadence that Geralt was used to. “Are you alright? What happened?” 

Jaskier shrank back, swallowed, lowered his eyes. “Nothing,” he said quietly, the tremor still not quite gone from his voice. “Just…just a nightmare.”

“A nightmare,” Geralt echoed with a frown. Jaskier swallowed again, tried to pull away, but Geralt wouldn’t let him. “You’re shaking, Jaskier,” he said. 

“It’s nothing,” Jaskier said again, very unconvincingly, wiping the tears quickly from his face. “Don’t worry about me. And you don’t have to stay, I’ll be okay on my own, I promise, I’m not drunk anymore.”

Geralt watched him for another few moments. “Do you, uh…” he paused, cleared his throat, felt a slight flush heat his cheeks. “Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare, I mean.”

Jaskier glanced up at him; a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “ That sounded extremely awkward, Geralt, was that difficult for you to say?” But there was no mirth in his voice, and his smile faded as quickly as it had come; fleeting like a fluttering bird. 

“I mean it,” Geralt said gruffly. “I’ll…I’m here to listen.” 

Jaskier curled up a bit under the covers, refused to look at him.

“Please, Jaskier,” Geralt said, almost pleading, because there was something so very wrong for this bright and beautiful bard to be shaking in the middle of the night, and he wanted to fix it. He _had_ to fix it. 

Jaskier was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was very small  . “I’m just… waiting for you to leave me again.” 

For a few moments, Geralt couldn’t breathe. There was no anger in the bard’s voice and the words sounded more broken than anything, but it was accusation nonetheless, and he knew it wasn’t anything that wasn’t true, anything that he didn’t deserve to hear, but it shattered him. 

Jaskier’s hand was still in his; he gave it a gentle squeeze, felt the fingers twitch in response. “I’m not leaving, Jaskier,” he said. 

Jaskier looked unconvinced. 

Geralt bit the inside of his lip, felt the vice-like clench in his chest. Jaskier was hurting, and it was because of him, and that was unforgivable. 

“Look, Jaskier,” he said quietly. “I can’t…I can’t make you believe me. And I don’t expect you to trust what I say. But I’ll…stay here tonight. With you. If that would help. And I promise I won’t leave.”

Slowly, Jaskier looked up at him. “You’ll really stay tonight?” 

“If you want me to.” 

Jaskier hesitated, nodded once faintly. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I…I’d like that.” 

Geralt hummed quietly, stood from the chair and slipped into bed beside the bard; the other man shifted to make room for him. Here, if it had been four years ago, Jaskier would have said something ridiculous about sharing a bed, something jokingly affectionate about him, something that Geralt would have huffed at in mock irritation while feeling something warm inside that he’d never put words to. But it wasn’t four years ago, and Jaskier was silent now, and Geralt missed him.

Because he was different now. Quieter, sadder. There was still a slight tremor to the bard’s body as he lay beside the Witcher, carefully not touching him, watching him with wide eyes—waiting, Geralt realized, still not quite believing that he was wanted, still uncertain of his place in Geralt’s world.

_Words can do a lot of harm, you know_ . 

“Come here,” Geralt murmured, holding open his arms, and then it was like the bard melted, sinking into the space between them until they were pressed together, Jaskier’s head resting on his Witcher’s shoulder, arm draped carefully across his chest, curled up against him while Geralt held him like he would never let go.

Jaskier let out a quiet, broken noise, almost a sob muffled against Geralt’s shoulder, and a shudder ran down the length of his body. He was still shaking, and Geralt could feel the hot wetness of his tears against his shoulder, hear the quiet shudder in his breaths. The bard’s fingers were curled against him, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if trying to prevent Geralt from slipping away, as if trying to _absorb_ him, reaching out to touch him for the first time in four years.

“Sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly, turning to press his lips into the bard’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” And he tightened his grip around the bard’s shoulders as if to prove it, put his other hand over the one Jaskier had curled into his chest, edged a knee between Jaskier’s thighs to tangle their legs together.

Slowly, gradually, Jaskier’s trembling stilled, and the sharp, shuddering huffs of his breaths faded to quiet. “Thanks, Geralt,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible and sounding very small. 

Geralt hummed. “Anytime, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier took a shaky breath. He was still clinging to Geralt’s side, but he felt a little more relaxed now, and then, gradually, Geralt felt him slip into sleep. 

Geralt followed not long after. 

When he woke the next morning, Jaskier was still curled against him. He was warm and soft, eyelids a delicate pink and breaths coming in gentle, quiet puffs over Geralt’s shoulder. He was still now, so much calmer than he had been the night before. 

Geralt ached with want. There was an almost overwhelming desire to reach out and touch, to feel the softness of those cheeks, the give of his lips, the light stubble dotting the bard’s jaw. But he held back, wanting to let the bard sleep for as long as he needed, wanting to give him as much peace as he could. So he lay there wrapped in the bard’s arms instead, feeling the steady cadence of his heartbeat, the gentle lull of his breathing, and waited in quiet. 

Jaskier woke an hour later. First was a slight stirring, then the delicate flutter of his eyelids, as he was pulled back into the world. 

“Good morning,” Geralt said, and Jaskier started, almost as if he’d forgotten where he was. 

“Hello,” he said quietly, almost shyly; his voice was hoarse. He swallowed, a slight stiffness to his body as he realized how closely he was pressed against Geralt. “Um.” 

“You’re okay,” Geralt murmured, giving the bard’s shoulders a light, reassuring squeeze, telling him that it was alright if he stayed here, that Geralt _wanted_ him there, and Jaskier relaxed a bit again. They lay there for a while, breathing in the scent of each other, Geralt basking in the soft warmth of Jaskier’s body and taking refuge in the gentle weight of the bard’s arm across his chest. 

Presently, Jaskier cleared his throat. “We should, um, get up. You need to change your bandages.” 

Geralt hummed, half in agreement, half in disappointment. Jaskier sat up, stretched, yawned, and got out of bed; Geralt reluctantly followed suit. 

“How’s your head?” Geralt asked gruffly, lifting his shirt to unwrap the old bandages. 

“You mean from all that drinking last night?” Jaskier wrinkled his nose as he sat down in the second chair still over by the desk. “I’m actually feeling okay, as long as I don’t think too much about how much I drank. Or about vomiting.” 

Geralt sat down in the chair he’d left by the bed last night and probing at his wounds, which were already almost closed now. The one on his thigh was doing better than the one under his ribs; it was silvery pink around the edges, only a small still-open wound at the center. The one under his ribs had been larger and deeper and still stung a bit when he touched it, though not as much as before. Both would have been healed by now had they been inflicted by anything else, but ghoul bites were notoriously nasty, even for Witchers, and for a ghoul bite, they were healing quite nicely. Another two or three days at the most and they would be closed over completely. 

“And your sleep?” he asked, trying to be casual, trying not to spook the bard. 

Jaskier was immediately subdued. “Fine.” 

Geralt glanced at him. “Do you get nightmares like that every night?” 

Jaskier shrugged again, not looking at him, and didn’t answer. 

Geralt sighed, tossed the old bandages to the side to wash later, turned to face the bard. “ _Jaskier_.” 

The bard bit his lip, glanced at him briefly, looked away again. “Thought getting blackout drunk would get rid of them,” he mumbled. 

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat. _Yes_ , that meant. Yes, he got nightmares like that every night. Yes, he relived that fear night after night, in the darkness with no one to hold, and Geralt hadn’t known. “You…you could’ve told me,” he said when he could speak.

Jaskier huffed a laugh. “What, and then you would’ve offered to stay every night to convince me that you weren’t leaving again?” 

“Yes,” Geralt said immediately. 

Jaskier drew in a sharp breath. “Oh,” he said. 

There was a moment of silence. 

“I’ll stay every night, if you want me to,” Geralt said finally. “You don’t have to be afraid, Jaskier. I’m not going anywhere. Not even when my wounds heal; I’ll still be with you.” 

“No, Geralt, you don’t…you don’t understand,” Jaskier said, and there was a shake in his voice, a tremble to his fingertips as his hands clasped in front of him. “You don’t get it.” 

“So tell me,” Geralt said, and it was almost pleading, because he _wanted_ to understand, he wanted to know what was hurting his bard, wanted to know what was wrong so he could put it right. “I know I hurt you, Jaskier, I know you’re afraid that I hate you. I know you’re afraid that I’ll leave. And neither of those are true; I don’t hate you, and I won’t leave you again. But if it’s more than that, I need you to tell me.” 

Jaskier swallowed, clenched his jaw, tried several times to speak. “It’s not just being afraid you’ll leave. That’s too simple. It’s…I don’t know how to say it, I don’t…” He trailed off, took a shuddering breath, started again.  “I thought…I thought I’d lost you again,” he said quietly. “When I saw you lying there, as good as dead, in the middle of ghoul territory. I thought you _were_ dead, at first, and there’s no way I can put into words what I felt in that moment. That’s…that’s part of what I dream of.” He stopped, took another shuddering breath; his shoulders were shaking. 

“I’m alive, Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly. “You saved me.” 

“I know.” His voice broke. “But that doesn’t erase what I felt when I thought you weren’t. It doesn’t erase the fear, the panic—” He broke off again, clenched his jaw. “I always knew that a Witcher’s life was dangerous. I never thought yours was an exception. But I’d never seen you so close to dying. I never really, truly understood that you _could_ die. I never thought that would be something I might have to deal with, so I didn’t know _how_ I’d deal with it. I didn’t know what I would do. Seeing you there, in the moment, I _still_ didn’t know what I would do. 

“Because it had already broken me the first time you left me, when you told me you didn’t want me around. You…you broke my heart then, Geralt,” he said, and he huffed a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Being with you…it was everything to me. And you took that away in the harshest way. You made me feel like all the time I’d spent with you was a mistake—a waste of my time, which sure, I can get over, but more than that, it was a waste of _your_ time. And I couldn’t stand it, to think that I’d been a burden, that I’d been unwanted…” His voice shook, and when he broke off tears had leaked from his eyes, slipping down soft cheeks to settle like crystals under his chin. “You’d never actually told me you cared, or that you wanted me there, I’ll give you that. But I thought that was just you, I never thought you _actually_ didn’t want me there, and then on the mountain, I realized that I’d been wrong for all those years. I felt so fucking _stupid_. I wondered how many people had looked at us and thought, ‘look at that poor bard, following that Witcher around like a lost puppy, oblivious to the fact that he’s not wanted.’ And the pity—that was the worst.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again after that, you know,” Jaskier continued, and now that he’d started talking it was like he couldn’t stop. “Losing you hurt more than anything else I’d ever felt, but I thought ‘good, it hurts but at least he’s rid of me, he can finally get on with his own life now without me holding him back, he can finally be happy.’ You were better off, so I could live with the hurt. And I did, for four years. But then I _saw_ you again but you were practically dead and you didn’t know me, and I hadn’t even ever gotten you back but I couldn’t go through losing you again, I just—I couldn’t—” 

There was a sharp pain in Geralt’s chest, tightening around his ribs so he couldn’t draw breath, gripping his throat so he couldn’t speak. He’d hurt when Yennefer had left, he’d regretted when  he’d told Jaskier to leave, but _this_ , hearing this pain slipping from his bard’s lips, pouring out of a lark’s throat when it should have been song instead— 

“I thought I was going to lose you again, and it…I thought it was going to be for forever,” Jaskier whispered. “I thought the _world_ was going to lose you forever, and I thought you were going to lose the world, and that was worse, because the world might not deserve you and I certainly don’t, but you deserve to see the good in the world and you deserve to see how much the world needs you. You deserve a long life with more happiness and joy that’s been given to you, and the thought of you not being there, the thought of you not even having a _chance_ to get it—” He broke off again, took a shuddering breath, closed his eyes on the fresh tears spilling from his eyes. 

"Jaskier," Geralt murmured, waited until the trembling breaths calmed again. "Jaskier,  I’m staying here. With you. For as long as you want me. And I’m not dying.” 

Jaskier was still crying, silent and beautiful and human, and Geralt didn’t deserve him but he’d be damned if he ripped away anything that the bard wanted ever again. 

“I was wrong, the first time,” Geralt continued, and he wanted to touch, to comfort, to love, but he held back because Jaskier’s forgiveness was for him to give, not for Geralt to take. “I wasn’t angry at you, but I lashed out, and I didn’t mean it but I know it wasn’t fair. I know I hurt you, and I…I’m sorry. I hate that I hurt you and I know that it won’t change what I did, but I hope that means something anyway. I don’t want to ever hurt you again.” He paused, took a slightly shaky breath. “And you didn’t have to come after me, but you did,” he said roughly. “You…you saved me. You looked after me. Even after all I’d done. Thank you.” 

“I would’ve done anything for you,” Jaskier whispered. “I still would.” His eyes were still closed; the tears had stopped now, but the tracks they had left were still wet, bright and shining on his cheeks. 

Geralt swallowed, felt the grip tighten around his heart. It was the bard’s grip that was holding him, the bard that was holding his heart in his hands, and Geralt wouldn’t have had it any other way. “I was a dick,” he said bluntly. “For what I said, and for letting myself almost die. I’m sorry, Jaskier.” 

The bard huffed a laugh; his smile trembled. “You can’t…you can’t die, Geralt,” he said quietly. “With me or not, it doesn’t matter; you can’t die.” 

“With you, and I won’t die,” Geralt said, and his voice was soft but firm. A Witcher’s life was dangerous, and there was no telling what might happen to him, but it was as close to a promise as he could get. 

Jaskier let out a shuddering breath. There was a silence; Geralt listened to his breathing, watched the shaking quiet in his shoulders, waited as the wetness of tears dried on his cheeks. 

Finally, Jaskier turned to him, gave him another brief, small smile. “You haven’t re-wrapped your wounds.” 

Geralt blinked, looked down at himself in surprise. “I haven’t,” he agreed. 

Jaskier bit his lip, hesitated, stood and walked over. He knelt in front of Geralt, pulling the fresh bandages gently from his hands. He wrapped the wound on Geralt’s thigh first, fingers deft and light and surprisingly practiced, being careful not to pull the bandages too tight but keeping them tight enough that it would support and protect the still-open wound. He wrapped the one under Geralt’s ribs second, and his touch was warm and comforting against Geralt’s skin, and Geralt wanted it forever. 

“I love you, is that okay?” Jaskier asked, and he said it so quietly, yet so casually, as if he were making some off-hand remark about how the wounds were healing, that it took several moments for Geralt to process it. 

“Um.” Geralt blinked, cleared his throat, felt the sudden thudding in his chest. Jaskier glanced up at him as he tucked in the loose end of the bandage, eyes red-rimmed and blue and sad, cheeks a gentle pink and his lips beautifully soft. 

“Yeah,” Geralt said, and his voice was a rasp. “Yeah, that’s okay.” 

Those red lips curved in a faint smile then, the pink of his cheeks flushing a little brighter. 

Geralt cleared his throat again. “I, uh, hope you know,” he began, pausing to try and find the right words because this was _important_ , probably the most important thing that was ever going to happen in his entire life, and he would _not_ fuck it up. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier said quietly, and there was so much quiet affection in that voice and Geralt _shattered_ , his resolve crumbling in the wake of that cornflower blue and his composure dissolving under that gentle smile. He leaned forward without thinking, closing his eyes as he closed the gap between them, pressed his lips to the bard’s. 

He felt Jaskier’s lips part in a slight gasp, the surprise that flitted through his body, and then Jaskier was kissing him back, hands reaching up to tangle in Geralt’s hair, the small noises he was making pulling at Geralt’s heart. 

“I love you, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, and Jaskier laughed helplessly, and Geralt could feel the hot damp of tears on his cheeks. “I do care. I do want you with me. And I’m not letting you go again.” 

“Ever?” Jaskier whispered. 

“Ever,” Geralt promised. 

Jaskier kissed him, then pulled away. “I know you want forgiveness,” he said. “And you’ll get it, in time. I love you, but today…today is not that time yet.” He swallowed. “The thing I was afraid of most was losing you, and you’ve almost made me go through that twice. The second time wasn’t entirely your fault, I’ll give you that,” he said with a small smile. “But the first time…I can’t forget that yet.” 

“I don’t expect you to,” Geralt said, and the words hurt but he knew they were fair. “If you want me, I’ll be here, and I’ll wait for however long it takes.” 

Jaskier hesitated, nodded, and there was a bit of a smile on his face. 

“They call me your wolf, downstairs,” Geralt murmured, and he reached out to cup Jaskier’s jaw again, felt the warmth rise in his chest as the bard’s eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into Geralt’s touch. “And all around the continent. Everywhere I go, they say I’m yours.” 

“And?” Jaskier whispered. “Are you?” 

Geralt leaned forward, kissed him again, felt the soft lips curve in a smile against his own. “Yes,” he said. 

The bard's Witcher, they called him. The White Wolf, no longer wild now, but tamed under a bard’s hand. And he was alright with that. Jaskier held his heart, and so Jaskier's wolf he would be, now until the end of time. 


End file.
